


Honeytrap

by Wintervention



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Ancient Greece, Ancient History, Blow Jobs, Excessive Use of the Word Cock, Food Sex, Honey, M/M, Smut, vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 08:23:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12678099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintervention/pseuds/Wintervention
Summary: 'Oh it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. I was in such bliss, my brothers.'Viktor has a new idea for his Eromenos





	Honeytrap

The Orient slave’s hands are soft against his calves as he massages the thick, amber substance into his pale, unblemished skin. The touch is comfortable- familiar. It’s the same touch that smooths his hands with almond oil, his skin with rose water, and his hair with olive oil every morning. Sometimes, they press tiny needles into his flesh, for reasons unknown to him yet sworn by as far as his erastes was concerned. He doesn’t shiver as gentle fingers dance up and down his legs, or sweep across the soft expanse of his back.

The honey has already begun to slide down his body, dripping to the cushioned chaise longue he is spread languidly across, and leaving the furs sticky to the touch. His left arm is numb as it lies trapped beneath him and glued to his chest by it, side pressed against the récamier, and his right leg is thrown over the other to enhance the curve of his behind- he’s become far too comfortable with his nudity.

Every so often, he will shift and lean for the fruit that adorns the side table, plucking grapes between lithe fingers and using them to scoop honey from the slave’s pot- of course, taking great care not to rush or jostle the tiny anemone flowers that had been woven into his painstakingly pinned-up flaxen hair by some nameless eunuch that morning in the gynaceum.

He’s not sure how much time has passed since he was brought up to the private atrium to be painted gold like one of Midas’ playthings, but the sun that spills through the skylight to hold the coloured tiles of the floor in an ethereal glow still shines a royal yellow. The spring air is dry and crisp, but does not leave him shivering- though there had once been a time when he found even the coldest of the Mediterranean winters roasting. There’s still the chirping of some creature in the distance, but it is quickly growing weary. He doesn’t care much, however- he’s been given enough sweet oranges and pomegranates to satisfy his small stomach for the evening.

He can hear the music and conversation of Viktor’s lively symposium begin to tire also. Fewer footsteps follow the path to the courtyard they vomit in to maintain some shred of propriety, and the poor lyre player has become clumsy with his notes. The guests themselves have drunk enough wine to render their feet just as clumsy, regardless of how much it had been diluted. Earlier, there had been the distinct cacophony of crockery smashing to the ground, and delighted cries that sounded far too womanly- all signs it had been a successful evening, or so he assumed. He’d never had the delight of attending one.

And the so-called _‘golden boy’_ , of course, is the grand finale- but only for the host. The generals and magistrates have seen enough of him in the hot-air baths, curled in Viktor’s lap and only semi-discreetly bouncing on his cock. It is a ‘self-congratulations’, of sorts, as the thought of seeing the adolescent doused in the sickly-sweet honey of the villa’s own hives could only have come from his head- or rather, his head after several alcohol-fuelled engagements with that damned Allobroge Christophe. He’d just been waiting for the right time to bring his vision to life.

He doesn’t realise that the absent-minded humming of the slave have disappeared, leaving him alone to his fruits and his musings. The silence settles, and it is clear the party has dissipated. And if Viktor doesn’t come for him soon, the honey is going to crystallise and become very difficult to clean off. Thankfully, he had the foresight to sugar off what little body hair he had just before.

A striking cough draws his attention to the columned entrance, where Viktor stands, leaning against a tiled archway, with a smirk that was only just visible in the back light of the setting sun. The fading light envelops his imperious stature, highlighting the lines of every one of his muscles, and makes him appear much taller than his five feet and eleven inches (six feet on a good day, or so he claims). Against the distant coast line background, he thinks Viktor looks almost Godlike- but that is what he’s obliged to think.

The boy angles his head in an attempt to throw a sultry look over his shoulder, but his signature citrus-sour scowl still graces his delicate features.

“You took your time,” he grumbles light-heatedly.

“ _Yura,_ ” Viktor scolds him with one word, but it is edged with a certain delighted purr that indicates he is far from angry or disappointed with his charge.

The elder’s feet stumble across the floor as he makes his way towards the boy draped over the chaise, and Yura can see his hair tousled, his eyes rubbed-red and his robe barely clinging on to his shoulders from his evening of intoxication and what some would most likely call ‘vice’.

Much to their mutual disappointment, the bench is not nearly wide enough to comfortably accommodate both of them lying side by side, but Viktor manages to slide in to the little remaining space with an impressive air of grace and ease for his state. There’s a lingering scent of some Middle Eastern perfume on his skin, and the sickening blend of wine and opium tea is heavy on his breath as he sighs, content.

For a while, he does nothing but stare, those eyes of an icy-blue hat drew such a strong parallel with the wide, frozen expanses of their common birthplace searching the softer expanse of Yura’s honeyed skin. Too embarrassed to meet his gaze, Yura’s own eyes follow the lightest of touches as they make their way down his cheek, and move to stroke his slight torso, following the faint lines of his ribs.

With his index finger, Viktor scoops up a rather large drip of honey from the boy’s side, and brings it up to his lips to let it coat his tongue with a genuine, satisfied smile. “You’re divine,” he whispers, pressing the tip of his nose against Yura’s, then moving to connect their lips. As they’re locked in so deep a kiss that the rest of the world doesn’t even reach the status of an afterthought, his hands travel across his beloved’s back with a renewed sense of vigour and lust. Lithe juice-stained fingers trace the shadows of his throat and jawline as he feels his robe slip further down his shoulders, and pull back from his waist.

The sudden uncontrolled gasp as Viktor circles the boy’s nipples is sweeter than any music played by Apollo himself, and certainly sweet enough to make him pull away from the sweetness shared between their tongues, roll the boy further over on to his back, and switch his focus to the exquisite chest beneath him. The blond follows his guidance with no resistance.

Mewling quietly and shuffling his hips, Yura slides his foot up across the linen and fur to gently nudge Viktor’s quickly hardening cock with his knee. The shift is quickly met by his hand grasping his limb and pushing it back down in a swift, commanding movement, only to replace it with the hand. The other moves to press against the heat pooling in the youth’s belly, as his tongue continues to savour the honey running down his skin. Yura can do little else but lay, and moan, and smile devilishly as Viktor’s world, the only world that really matters, revolves around him for just a moment.

He feels a wave of cold when Viktor takes his hands off him and pushes himself up, stepping down from the pedestal the seat was situated on, but his smirk grows wider as the same hands find themselves entangled in his hair just seconds later, and the head of his similarly honey-coated cock is pressed to Yura’s pouted lips. The blond leans over to take it in to his mouth, but Viktor pulls back abruptly, tutting with a cocky eyebrow raise.

“Don’t be such a greedy brat, _Kitten,_ ” he taunts with an amused look.

Yura can’t imagine that the statement was intended to make him giggle, but he does so anyway, and stares up at the man with an expression of pure desperation that is only half faked.

He’s not above begging- and he knows the exact way to steer the night in his favour. And he’s been waiting to be fucked all evening.

“Let me clean your cock, sir,” he asks with heavy-lidded eyes.

“ _Good boy,_ ”

Sometimes, he’s surprised by how easy Viktor really is.

As Viktor’s erection passes over his lips and rocks gently, he becomes slightly more enthusiastic about the honey situation- the blend of a natural sweetness against the sea-salt of his skin is an unfamiliar, but not unpleasant taste, as it coats his expertly-wandering tongue and the back of his throat.

Hands tighten in his golden locks as his own slip down to his own neglected member- but, like he’s Yura’s age again, the elder is cumming before he even gets the chance to touch it, with no indication other than the viscous liquid that drips down his chin when he pulls out, his dick still rock solid and throbbing red. There’s no pleasured moan or exhausted collapse, he simply draws back with a neutral expression that could be taken as determined by someone with much sharper eyes than him.

He moves to loom over Yura once again, grabbing him by the calves and dragging him towards the foot of the chaise, the throws and fabrics following the movement. The boy lifts a leg to push his foot against Viktor’s broad chest, to hold him back from leaning any further over his splayed body. For a second, there’s a flicker of anger in his eyes- no one else would dare stop him from having his way- but it soon dissipates in to an amused, challenging stare.

“I thought you liked me on my knees?” he questions, curious yet impertinent.

“I want to see your face- you’re _ravishing,_ ” Viktor growls, his hands once again moving to explore Yura’s body.

“Perhaps you should have someone bring a looking glass so that I may watch myself too- if I’m _so_ beautiful, of course,”

“You’re being rather audacious this evening, kitten,”

Suspiciously slowly, Viktor kneels up on the seat and slides the boy’s ankle up to rest on his shoulder, and begins to place tender, feather-light kisses to his foot, moving up his leg gently to taste the honey, and the natural sweetness of his marble-white skin. Not even losing dropping his attention on the leg for a second, he reaches down with the other hand to tease the space between the boy’s spread legs with a single finger, revelling in the soft gasps and shuffling sounds beneath him.

“But you still love me though,”

There’s no reply.

Seemingly satisfied with what little lubrication the honey and Yura’s saliva had provided, Viktor drops the slim leg back down, and moves to push his cock between the boy’s perfectly round rosy cheeks with a particularly carnal quickness. He feels the soft ring of muscle clench down just for a moment, and slows his pace so that Yura can accommodate the sudden intrusion- and a sudden slip deep inside him lets the man know he can pick it back up again.

Yura’s own delectably strained prick bounces lewdly against his lower stomach as hisses through clenched teeth and pursed, swollen lips soon become archaic, lionizing moans- and he doesn’t care if the whole of Peloponnese can hear his unholy worship. Viktor joins the cacophony with almost animalistic grunts, not unlike the ones he leaves behind on battlefields, but there’s a sensuality in them that Yura’s not heard before, and it inches him closer and closer to the edge. The noise pushes aside the whispering wind and idle waves, but it can’t cover the screech of gilded chair legs against the floor’s intricate mosaic that accompanies every over-enthusiastic twist and thrust.

There’s something about looking down at the boy’s ecstatic face- still ceramic pale despite the sun’s best efforts- as well as his artistically arched spine and writhing limbs that Viktor, with all his linguistic education, simply cannot find a single word worthy enough to be used to describe the feeling. It’s so wretched yet so utterly empyrean that he should feel so infatuated with the boy- _his boy_.

He can tell from his reddening cock and reddening face that Yura is holding on just for him. His hands are clasped together in the crook of his neck, tangled in the knotted hair that falls around his shoulders, so that he does not reach down and finish himself.

Staring just as deep in to his emerald eyes as his prick rests in his soft heat, Viktor pulls completely out. His face pulls in to a sly, knowing smirk, as the chest beneath him heaves with exhausted and anticipating breaths. He angles his hips, traces a tantalising line down the blond’s thigh, and plunges back in to his dark flesh with a powerful buck.

And no sooner does he bottom-out, than Yura is howling in euphoria, reaching up with shaking hands to grab at Viktor’s shoulders and panting like a dog as he jerks around. Impressed by his little display of exultation, the elder man soon follows, collapsing to the side of the adolescent with a moist brow and overarching sensation of satisfaction, embarrassingly spent from their relatively short encounter.

When he finds the energy, he snakes a hand over Yura’s torso, and brings tender lips to his lean shoulder. The honey has softened with the warmth of his skin, and the boy, too tired to truly protest, seems perfectly happy to let him clean it off with delicate flicks of his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever stop thinking about the brilliant Ancient AU that the amazing Potya posted on tumblr? Probably not.


End file.
